Edmund rolled over, staring at him through fog enshrouded eyes. "Then if she means nothing, might I have her when you are through?"
Kendrick felt his anger rise in a quick manner and consume the length of his body. Nay, the girl would go to no man except him! He would kill anyone who ever tried. Hiding his emotions, he let a dark smile convey his answer. "Nay, Edmund. She belongs to me."
"But why, if you do not want her…?"
His eyebrows knitted in a fearsome fury. "Edmund, you may be my brother but I will kill you if you touch her. Am I understood?"
Edmund rolled onto his back on the makeshift bed. "Aye, if that is what you want. ‘Tis a shame, though. We could play our normal game and we both could enjoy her fruits. This may sound strange, Kendrick, but I know now once you have her, you will never let her go."
Kendrick dismissed the physician even though the bandage on his leg was only half done. The man blubbered something about not being finished but he cared not. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts and that would be impossible with the elderly physician clacking about his wound as though the man was a hen in search of a meal. Solitude was what he needed.
After the physician left with his bag of tricks, he sat against the post, staring at the floor while his mind spun in a wild dervish. What caused him to be so enamored of the girl? Because she is the opposite of Bregonia. His mouth turned up in slight smirk. Except for now and then, he thought little of the woman who possessed his heart once. Possessed it then destroyed it without a second glance. In a leisure filled manner, his mind drifted back to the terrible day in the stable when his heart turned to stone.
He had awoken that morning to find Bregonia gone. Where did she go? She had loved riding horses early in the morning so he assumed she was waiting at the stable as usual. He had dressed with a quick hand to join her only to find her in the throes of passion with four squires. His mind went numb. Why did she do this to him when she had only professed her love to him the night before?
With furious hands, he had beaten the squires senseless before he reached her. She did not cower or beg his forgiveness. She had merely laughed as though the act committed amused her beyond belief. Deep from the dark recesses of his mind, he recalled those hateful words as they spewed from her mouth. They satisfy me far more than you ever did, she had taunted. With wounded pride, he had beat her almost to the same condition as that of the squires then sent her back to her father, or what he had thought to be her father. As time progressed, he learned of her secret.
Bregonia had been young girl of a mere sixteen when her father, the Earl of Granden, presented her at Kent. He had been mere lad of eighteen. On first sight of the onyx haired girl, he was smitten. With his father’s permission, he had betrothed himself to her. She had come to his bed the second day after their betrothal. He had quickly discovered her lack of virginity and her ways with men in bed. In his naïve mind, he did not care. It was not until later that he put all the pieces in the right order.
He smirked again, tucking a hand behind his head as his gaze trailed to the ceiling. How could he have been so blind? He should have realized by the way Bregonia and the Earl had glanced with lustful looks at each other at the dining table. Now the point was painfully clear. The Earl was Bregonia’s true husband and together they sought to dupe him out of his title. Thankfully, Bregonia’s misadventure in the stable had cost her. Did she not realize she would be caught eventually or did she just not care?
Still, the memory did nothing to quell the burning question nipping at the fabric of his mind. Why was he so taken with Isabeau? She struck him twice but yet something allured him to the woman underneath the rock solid surface. ‘Tis the cauldron of passion that boils inside her. One taste of the sweet mixture and I will crave it for eternity. The sheer taste of the unbridled emotion inside of her was enough to make him risk his heart. To not have it was a greater crime.
Deep snores, like the growling of a wild animal, greeted him from the bed. He looked over and felt a smile on crawl over his lips. Edmund was deep in sleep with his arm thrown over his eyes. His brother always knew how to interrupt dreams even in slumber.
* * * *
Isabeau sat at the head of the strategy table with her elbow propped on the armrest while her finger supported her chin. The chair seemed so much larger now as her body floated in the wide open space. ‘Tis Father’s chair. That is why I feel so alien in it.
Her coronation conducted earlier that day had gone without problem. Closing her eyes, Isabeau relived the recent memory.
Hundreds of tapers had glowed in the chamber, brightened by the many shades of the gold relics in there. The smell of the musk incense had risen and mingled with the sweet perfume already there. She had walked up the narrow passage, her hand on Seamus’ arm. A cloak of cloth-of-gold, trimmed in ermine, rested on her shoulders and trailed several feet behind her. The plethora of her flaxen hair, brushed out to satiny softness, curled in tight waves down her shoulders. Her legs felt weak as she glided up the aisle but she had remained strong. At the coronation chair, she sat down in a regal manner and listened to the bishop’s words in Latin as he asked God to make her a strong ruler. The anointing oil followed, thick and warm, on her forehead. A crown, made of hundreds of jewels, was placed on her head. The orb and scepter lay heavy in her hands, reminding her of the weight of the responsibilities thrust upon her.
Throughout the ceremony, she had felt nothing except the aching numbness inside for her father. He lay in his cold grave less than a day. Why were things so hurried?
Isabeau sighed with a heavy moan as she opened her eyes as a harsh mist of tears formed, threatening to roll down her cheeks. She wanted nothing more than to shed them but a voice inside told her to hold them back. Without reluctance, Isabeau reigned them in. A true Queen must never cry.
* * * *
Seamus’ words flowed into her ears steady and strong though she barely heard them above the pounding of her erratic heart. "What we must do is close in on them like a vice. Send a smattering of cavalry, archers and foot soldiers to the one edge of the woods and send a similar group to the other edge. When all of the Prince’s troops are safely ensconced within the confines of the glen, we shall close in and," Seamus said through clenched teeth as his fist crashed against the table for dramatic effect. "Squash them like the pests they are."
Isabeau stood up and studied the map before her with a careful eye. Tiny men on horseback, as well as archers, lay scattered in strategic formations around the board, placed in areas of most effectiveness. She frowned. "How many should I hold back, Seamus?" She inquired as she pointed to the smaller group furthest away from the rest.
"Hold as little as possible back. When the Prince of Wales discovers you possess too little men, he will move in for the kill. At that moment, your men will fall upon them and destroy the ignorant sots."
Isabeau crossed her arms over her velvet-encased bosom, her fingers dancing on her chin as they always did when she was deep in thought. It was a good plan but would it work? "Aye, then this is our plan of attack. Rally the men. We shall leave at dawn. I want a messenger to ride ahead with a letter ordering their complete and unconditional surrender. If they do not comply, which I am sure they will not, then we will have no choice but to kill them all."
Seamus bowed. "Aye, my Queen. Your will be done."
"I will be dressed at dawn as well and lead the troops myself."
Shock ran across Seamus’ ruggedly aged features. "Your Majesty, you cannot lead the troops! You are but a woman…."
The heat of fury crept into her face, staining her cheeks. "We have spoken of this before, Seamus," she stated flatly as she moved toward the large chair once occupied by her father. "I may be a woman but I am also your Queen. Did you so quickly forget the perfect battle tactics and sword wielding I learned at your knee? I have not forgotten! Come, the troops will follow me into the very bowels of hell if I so wish it."
"But, my Queen, the battlefield is no place for
you…."
Her upturned hand silenced him. "A monarch must fight for her country if it is in danger. That is why I must do this. Before dawn I want you to prepare the troops and let them know I will be the one to lead them. You will be my captain," her hand lay gently on his shoulder. "There is no else I trust."
Seamus patted her hand in a fatherly gesture. "There is much danger to behold, Your Majesty! I would prefer if you would stay here and be safe."
Isabeau shook her blonde curls in a vigorous motion and paced around the chamber. "Nay, I cannot when my men are staining the ground red with their blood. If it bothers you so, I will stay as far away from the fighting as possible."
"Aye, I would rather know you are safe."
She sighed with a heavy resignation. "Then that is what I will do though I will still be wearing my armor. One cannot be too careful."
Seamus bowed low to her. "Aye, my Queen. May I ask my leave of you so that I might talk to the men and tell them what is happening?"
"Aye, Seamus. You have served me well. I will see that you are handsomely rewarded once England has been banished from our shores."
Seamus removed her hand from his shoulder and kissed the back of it with gentle lips. "There is no reward I need other than to see you safe and away from all the bloodshed. I beg you to reconsider, my Queen."
Isabeau remained staunch in her decision as all the emotion slid from her face. "No, I will not. Now hurry before ‘tis too late."
Seamus bowed and left her presence with quickened steps. She watched his departing form for a moment then sank deep into her chair. Her tired fingers massaged her temples much like her own father did when he was worried about a particular matter. She was worried as well. Would this work as well as Seamus said?
* * * *
Dark gray ominous clouds settled in the sky overhead, curling in much like the tail of a wooly dog when it retires to sleep. Renegade winds, the same ones that brought the uncomfortable day, lifted the spiral tendrils away from her face. Isabeau sighed with a deep breath as her gaze locked onto the advance of the enemy. Ahead of the approaching garrison rode the Duke of Kent. Though his trademark midnight hued head remained covered, she still knew it to be him. His immense size gave him away but it was more of the way he rode. Confidence as well as arrogance radiated from him as though it were light from a beacon, drawing her to his charm like a moth to the flame. Her heart thumped in an unsteady rhythm as her pulse skittered with restless abandon along her veins.
The fury of his kiss still burned on her lips sending chills of excitement up her spine and throughout her body. Fingers filled with a slight trepidation touched the passion infused slivers, allowing her to recall the intensity of the kiss. How wonderful it felt to be held tight against the hardened planes of his body as his wanton words found their way to her ear!
Isabeau shook her head. She must forget the events of that night or else she would lament the lack of comfort from his arms forever. After all, he was the enemy that would stop at nothing to steal her crown.
"My Queen, the message has arrived from the Prince of Wales," Seamus whispered in her ear.
Her vision remained locked on to the Duke as the blood pounded in her ears. "What does the bastard say?" The Duke’s massive black horse lumbered ahead in a slow lope as it moved through the valley with ease. From the animal’s immense size, the horse could carry the Duke as well as his armor into battle without any effort at all. Her gaze flicked to the Duke. He sat straight and tall in his saddle with the reins bound in his leather clad hands. Her pulse picked up. He was a true magnificence of beauty.
"The Prince, under no certain terms, will surrender to us. In return, it is he who demands our unconditional surrender."
Unabashed anger boiled over. How dare the English think they would surrender? She whirled her head about, casting her fury on Seamus. The articulated plates of her jet hued armor clanked in response to her abrupt movement, piercing the hostile air. "Our surrender? The Prince must be daft! I suppose he is too cowardly to lead his men himself!" With those words from her lips, Isabeau laughed with a deep mirth. Edmund was too much of a coward to face her so he sent his brother to do his dirty work! How typical of the English!
Seamus shook his head in a sad motion. "There is more to the message. The Prince stated he is sending the Duke because he expects this to be an easy victory since our troops are led by a woman."
Her amusement died as the heat of her fury returned to her face. "He does, does he? Then we must prove I am a much more capable leader than he thinks. I will show him who will be the victor in this battle. Are my men in position for attack?"
Seamus nodded with a tilt of reassurance. "They await your signal, my Queen."
Her hand went to the hilt of ornate, gilded sword housed in its black leather sheath strapped to her black plated hips. "Then let it begin."
* * * *
Thick, black plumes of smoke rose high in the air, mingling with the unmistakable odor and aura of death. Underneath her horse’s hooves, Isabeau heard the distinctive hard crunch of the blood crusted grass as she rode through the den of destruction. Seamus remained in a faithful position by her side, his surcoat soaked in gore. Everywhere she looked, the English dead littered the once bright meadow of Cantilles Field with the bodies strewn about in a hapless configuration. Her gaze searched right and left, as she looked for one large man in particular. Without warning, she realized he simply was not here. Renegade breaths escaped. Good he survived so now he will deal with me.
Hard rustles to the left diverted her attention. She looked to a thicket of trees where the bushes moved, not by wind but by other means. Sounds of struggle echoed through the dense brush. Who was it?
Before she could send someone to investigate, several of her men burst through the brush, half-pulling half pushing an injured man. His size was unmistakable as was the pitch colored hair. Her breath stuck in her chest as to the identity of the man. It was the Duke of Kent! Keep calm and all will be well.
The soldiers dragged his struggling form in front of her horse. They tried to make him get down on his knees but he refused so one of them struck him on the back of the knees with the handle of a pike. No sound escaped his throat as his knees buckled, forcing him to kneel.
"My Queen, we caught this one trying to get back to his regiment. Do you want us to kill him now?" His head hung low as his wide chest heaved. One of her men drew a wicked looking dagger from his boot and held it against the Duke’s throat while the other gripped a handful of his dark hair.
"Pull his head up so I might see his face," she commanded as the wild beating of her heart picked up.
With a vicious hand, the man yanked the Duke’s head upwards. She sucked in a breath. The Duke stared at her through wild but lust filled eyes. Did the man think of nothing else?
* * * *
Kendrick’s vision remained clouded for a moment before the blood cleared in a slow fashion, causing him to blink quickly. Had his soul reached Heaven or Hell? Surely, he would know the difference if his soul had been dispatched
Before him sat a woman, dressed in black armor from head to toe. Her flaxen curls, topped by a crown of gold, streamed out and tumbled down her slender shoulders. With deliberate movements, the girl dismounted and strode over to him in a leisurely manner. The grass barely crunched under her feet despite the weight of the metal covering her lithe body. His heart lurched with an alien excitement, as the image became clearer, the beautiful face inches away from his own. Aye, ‘tis their Queen. With a gentle hand, she cupped his chin, sending spirals of unabashed delight through his body.
Her gaze raked over his stained face, her eyes narrowing a little. "He does not seem too worse for the wear. Put him in with the rest of the prisoners and I will deal with him later." Even this close, he could smell her cloying, sweet scent. Perhaps his capture may have merit yet.
* * * *
Isabeau stepped away from the Duke and refrained from touching him any further. Even through
her leather-clad hands, she felt the intense heat rising from his body. Keep your composure. Do not let this man know how he affects you!
With the end of a pike, her soldier prompted him to his feet. As he rose, the Duke gave her body a raking gaze, as though he imagined her without her armor. The smile in his eyes contained a sensuous flame, a light too hard to ignore. "What do you plan on doing with me, Princess?"
Isabeau’s eyebrow cocked upwards in a malicious tone. "I am no longer a Princess but a Queen. Since I cannot kill you, I shall think of something for you until I decide whether or not to ransom you to your brother." Her seductive throaty voice surprised her. She never knew that part of her existed. Perhaps ‘twas his kiss that brought it forth.
His black brows knitted in a surprised expression as a muscle quivered in his jaw. "Perhaps I can begin the lessons I spoke to you about not so long ago." His voice was low and masculine, filled with a rasp of excitement. It sent chills down her spine, tempting her to turn herself over to his more than capable hands but she held steadfast.
Struggling to maintain an even, sensual tone, Isabeau let out a low throaty laugh. "Nay, it will be you who is the pupil. After I am through with you, milord, you will never want to set foot in Castile again," she stated with a stern voice, waving a black leather clad hand in a dismissive fashion. "Take him away."
Her reaction to the situation seemed to amuse him. The start of a smile tipped the corner of his mouth, drawing outward in a leisurely move. "’Tis the first time I am the pupil, dear lady. ‘Twill be a lesson I will most enjoy." Before she could rebuke him, the point of a pike dug in between the plates of his armor, prompting him toward the cart. With reluctant steps, he trudged toward the structure with his head turned back in observation of her. On the inside, she trembled as her inner core melted. Outwardly, she emitted the iciness to keep him at bay.
Desires Promise Page 6